PINTO  BEN 

-  and  other  stories 


WilliamS.  Hart 
Mary  Hart 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


PINTO  BEN  AND  OTHER 
STORIES 


He  dashed  an'  whirled  at  that  maddened  herd, 
While  I  fanned  the  old  gun — but  no  use — 


PINTO  BEN 

-and  other  stories 


WilliamS.  Hart 

and 

Mary  Hart 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  R.  L.  LAMBDIN 


N  E,  "W       Y  O 
BRJTTON    PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


i  RY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
WILLIAM   S.   HART 

MADE  IN  U.  S.  A. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


In  appreciation  of  the  great 
motion  picture  public  who 
have  been  so  kind  to  me  and 
to  those  who  remember  me  in 
my  career  on  the  speaking 
stage  this  book  is  respectfully 
dedicated. 

William  S.  Hart. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PINTO  BEN-— A  Story  in  Verse  by  William  S. 

Hart 23 

THE  SAVAGE — A  Story  by  William  S.  Hart  .  37 
THE  LAST  OF  His  BLOOD — A  Story  by  Mary 

Hart 57 


A  FOREWORD 
BY  WILLIAM  S.  HART 

IN  answer  to  the  oft-repeated  query — 
"Did  Bill  Hart  get  his  knowledge  of  the 
West  in  motion  pictures?"  I  make  this 
brief  statement  of  facts. 

The  first  fifteen  years  of  my  life  were 
spent  in  the  Dakota  Territory.  The  great 
West  mothered  me  during  the  shaping  of 
my  boyhood  ambitions  and  ideals.  There 
fore,  I  know  by  personal  experience  much 
of  the  actual  life  of  our  frontier  days. 

Let  me  relate  a  few  unusual  stories  of 
early  environment  which  will  show  why  a 
man  born  of  the  West  never  forgets  its 
history,  traditions  and  life. 

While  boys  of  my  age  in  the  East  were 
9 


A  FOREWORD 


playing  baseball,  football  and  their  vari 
ous  school  games,  I  was  forced  through  en 
vironment  to  play  the  more  primitive 
games  of  the  Indians.  I  lived  on  the  fron 
tier.  White  settlers  were  few.  Natur 
ally,  I  had  but  few  boy  companions  of  my 
own  race.  A  boy  is  a  boy  no  matter  what 
race  or  country;  therefore,  we  played  with 
the  Indian  youths. 

In  this  way,  I  learned  to  ride  Indian- 
style  as  well  as  with  the  saddle ;  I  learned 
to  shoot  accurately  with  rifle  or  six-gun ;  I 
learned  to  hunt  and  track  with  the  wisdom 
of  my  red  friends;  and  I  learned  to  play 
the  rugged,  body-building  games  of  the 
native  Americans,  which  called  for  the 
greatest  endurance  and  best  sportsman 
ship.  In  short,  I  was  a  Western  boy. 

For  instance, — we  used  to  sail  primitive 
Indian  ice-boats  on  the  upper  Missouri 


10 


A   FOREWORD 


river.  This  sport  was  the  chief  joy  of  my 
winter  days.  With  our  Indian  boy  friends 
we  would  construct  the  ice-boat  in  this 
fashion : 

Taking  a  suitable  number  of  barrel- 
staves,  we  lashed  them  together  length 
wise  with  buckskin  thongs.  Thus,  the 
staves  were  raised  from  the  surface  both 
in  the  front  and  rear,  making  a  canoe  ef 
fect.  Then  a  soap  box  was  placed  in  the 
middle  of  the  craft.  Next  we  placed  a 
stout  pole  upright  in  the  front  end  of  the 
box.  To  a  crosspiece  on  the  pole  we  lashed 
a  blanket.  We  were  then  all  ready  to  go. 

When  the  winter  winds  hit  those  rude 
sails,  we  traveled  so  far  and  so  fast  in  one 
direction  that  it  would  take  us  all  day  to 

walk  back  home. 

ii 


A   FOREWORD 


During  my  Dakota  boyhood  I  not  only 
acquired  the  accomplishments  of  the  West, 
but  I  met  some  of  the  most  famous  char 
acters  of  frontier  days — white  and  red 
men.  In  fact,  my  early  days  of  intimate 
relationship  with  the  Sioux  Indians  en 
abled  me  to  learn  their  tribal  traits  and 
history  nearly  as  well  as  I  know  our  own. 
I  speak  the  "silent  tongue" — the  sign  lan 
guage  of  the  Sioux  which,  by  the  way,  is 
universally  understood  by  all  Indian 
tribes. 

In  those  days  the  luxuries  and  even 
many  of  the  necessities  of  civilization  were 
denied  us  in  our  frontier  settlements.  My 
mother  brought  four  children  into  this 
world,  attended  by  Sioux  squaws  because 
a  doctor  could  not  be  procured.  And, 


12 


A   FOREWORD 


when  a  vicious  rattler  nearly  ended  my  ca 
reer  at  the  tender  age  of  twelve  years,  a 
squaw  officiated  as  the  doctor,  the  nearest 
physician  being  engaged  in  punching  cows 
at  a  ranch  some  sixty  miles  distant.  That 
the  Sioux  squaw  was  a  good  doctor  is 
proven  by  the  fact  that  I  am  alive  today. 

I  relate  these  incidents  merely  to  ac 
quaint  the  public  with  the  West  as  I  knew 
it. 

When  Western  plays  were  first  tried 
out  on  the  American  stage,  I  was  an  actor 
of  considerable  experience.  Previous  to 
this  time  in  theatrical  history  I  had  played 
many  diversified  roles,  including  those  of 
Shakespeare. 

As    Cash    Hawkins    in    "The    Squaw 

Man,"  produced  at  Wallack's  Theater, 

13 


A   FOREWORD 


New  York  City,  in  1905,  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  be  able  to  give  the  American 
public  a  real  Western  character.  My  suc 
cess  in  this  character  opened  up  a  subse 
quent  line  of  Western  roles  for  me,  the  em 
phatic  success  of  "The  Squaw  Man"  caus 
ing  the  production  of  many  Western 
plays.  Considerable  comment  was  caused 
by  my  repeated  successes  in  these  charac 
ters  that  I  knew  as  a  boy  and  loved  so  well. 
Many  persons  who  were  interested  in  my 
work  marveled  at  tKe  realism  of  the  inter 
pretations.  Their  enthusiasm  persuaded 
me  that  the  entire  American  public  loved 
the  West  and  its  traditions  when  pre 
sented  with  truthfulness. 

Unfortunately,  the  other  sections  of  the 
United  States  had  long  been  deluged  with 

14 


A  FOREWORD 


sensational  "thrillers"  of  the  West  on  the 
melodramatic  stage,  in  dime  novels  and 
later  in  the  early  motion  pictures.  Many 
intelligent  people  had  formed  the  most 
weird  and  distorted  ideas  of  the  West  from 
the  history  of  frontier  days  to  the  present. 

In  1914  Western  pictures  were,  to  use 
the  language  of  the  motion-picture  pro 
ducers,  "a  drug  on  the  market." 

Now  I  loved  the  themes  of  these  plays. 
It  hurt  me  to  know  that  what  I  loved  was 
not  appreciated  simply  because  the  true 
West  was  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  sensa 
tionalism.  Realizing  that  because  of  my 
early  associations  of  the  West,  and  my 
training  as  an  actor  combined,  I  was  quali 
fied  to  rectify  many  mistakes  which  were 
then  being  made  in  the  production  of 


A    FOREWORD 


Western  photoplays,  I  decided  to  try  my 
luck.  To  give  the  American  public  the 
benefit  of  all  I  knew  of  the  West  from  ex 
perience  and  training  became  my  one  am 
bition.  In  turn,  I  would  enjoy  the  grati 
fication  of  doing  something  that  I  had 
longed  to  do  all  my  life.  And,  naturally, 
I  hoped  for  increased  fame  and  financial 
success.  My  continued  success  in  West 
ern  roles  on  the  stage  revealed  to  me  that 
what  the  public  desired  most  of  motion 
pictures  of  the  West  was  consistent  real 
ism.  Of  this  fact  I  was  so  thoroughly  con 
vinced  that  I  was  ready  to  sacrifice  my 
standing  on  the  legitimate  stage,  pur 
chased  by  long  years  of  toil  and  hard 
knocks,  to  gamble  with  fate. 

So  I  declined  a  flattering  and  remuner- 
16 


A   FOREWORD 


ative  offer  from  a  big  theatrical  firm  in 
New  York  City  and  paid  my  own  railroad 
fare  to  California.  In  May,  1914,  I 
started  my  work  in  Western  pictures  as  a 
star  at  the  salary  of  $75  a  week,  with  no 
other  financial  interest  of  any  nature. 
Such  was  the  status  of  Western  photo 
plays  at  that  time.  Nearly  five  years  have 
passed  since  that  eventful  time  in  my 
career.  That  I  have  devoted  this  lengthy 
period  exclusively  to  the  production  of 
Western  pictures  is  the  best  proof  that  the 
American  public  possesses  a  love  for  the 
West  that  will  endure  for  all  time.  To 
best  answer  the  query — -"Did  Bill  Hart 
get  his  knowledge  of  the  West  in  motion 
pictures?" — I  am  publishing  in  this  little 

book  a  story  in  verse,  "Pinto  Ben,"  and 

17 


A  FOREWORD 


the  story  of  "The  Savage,"  which  were 
both  published  in  the  New  York  Morning 
Telegraph — long  before  I  ever  dreamed 
of  motion  pictures.  As  my  sister,  Mary 
Hart,  is  a  more  accomplished  writer  than 
myself,  there  is  a  story  from  her  pen,  en 
titled,  "The  Last  of  His  Blood,"  included. 
This  story  was  first  published  some  five 
years  ago  in  "Lippincott's  Magazine," 
making  a  pronounced  success, — especially 
so  among  all  lovers  of  dogs, — and  I  feel 
that  I  need  her  work  to  help  out  my  own 
shortcomings.  With  the  sincere  hope  that 
these  little  offerings  will  please  my  mo 
tion-picture  friends  who  have  been  so  kind 
to  me,  I  remain, 

Very  respectfully, 

W.  S.  H. 

18 


TO  THOSE  WHO  LIKED  "KING"  IN 
"THE  NARROW  TRAIL" 

For  a  year  I  have  not  worked  in  pic 
tures.  I  am  happy  in  the  corral  an'  the 
boss  loves  to  see  me,  as  he  says,  "fat  an' 
sassy." 

I  think  "Pinto  Ben"  is  great,  but  I'm 
just  a  horse  an'  maybe  I  don't  know,  but 
I'm  for  anything  the  boss  does  even  if  it 
ain't  good.  He  likes  me  an'  I  like  him — 
an'  I  kin  lick  him,  too ! 

Hopin'  this  finds  you  all  well  as  it 
leaves  me  at  present,  I  am 
Your  friend, 

BILL  HART'S  PINTO  PONY. 
19 


PINTO   BEN 


PINTO  BEN 
By  WILLIAM  S.  HART 

Eastern  folks  called  it  a  tragedy  story, 
An'  tragedy — it  rides  herd  on  me; 
Fer  I  know'd  Ben,  that  cow-pony, 
An'  that  pink-nosed  Pinto  know'd  me. 

The  beef  round-up  cut  out  a  thousand 

head, 

The  craziest  critters  on  the  range, 
Five  years  old  an'  beef  to  the  hoofs, 

To  trail  to  Billings  an'  load  on  trains. 

23 


PINTO   BEN 


That  end  didn't  pan  hard, 
We  had  the  ponies  an'  the  men — 
Ever  hear  of  the  Chinook  outfits? 
That's  us;  Big  Dry— N  Bar  N. 

An'  Ben,  Ben  wus  boss  of  'em  all ; 
So  mild  an'  gentle  a  thing; 
He  could  beat  any  outlaw  hellin', 
Yet  the  pride  of  the  wrangler's  string. 

Your  loop  might  foul  on  a  pass, 
You  might  have  brush  in  the  way; 
But  Ben  would  always  sabe 

If  they  run  on  the  rope  all  day. 

24 


PINTO   BEN 


Why  Bill, — our  boss  trail  foreman, 
Segundo  Jim,  or  any  o'  the  men, 
Couldn't  drift  in  cattle  quicker, 
Or  read  a  road-brand  better  than  Ben, 

Ben  an'  me  roped  fer  money  once'd; 
The  saddle-horn  snapped  with  the  cast, 
But    Ben    weavered    in,    missin'    every 

plunge, 
Till  to  the  saddle-tree  I  got  fast. 

Then    he    stood    meek,    his    sides    still 

a-heavin', 

Him,  apologizin'  like,  fer  the  break — 
Didn't  savey  watches,  he  could  only  look — 

With  them  eyes  as  big  as  a  plate. 

25 


PINTO   BEN 


But  I  wus  huggin'  him  in  a  minute, 
We'd  won  out — tied  in  twenty-eight — 
An'  fer  a  little  buckin'   an'  swellin'  o' 

chests, — 
Say  son — you  should  seen  us  pullin'  our 

freight. 


26 


PINTO   BEN 


You  can  make  talk  o'  your  solid  colors; 
Your  bays,  an'  blacks — or,  gray — 
But  a  f ourteen-hand  Pinto  f  er  mine, 
An'  Ben  wus  a  King — work  or  play. 

The  range  wus  way  back,  a  rim  o'  the  sky; 
The  train  a-belchin'  blue  smoke ; 
Ahead,  a  city  o'  bricks,  stickin'  high; — 
Where  we  would  be  sure  to  go  broke. 

Segundo  Jim  a-worryin'  a  heap, 
Me  feelin'  like  a  loosened  cinch; 
An'  Ben  just  tremblin'  with  fear, 

Wus  what  wus  sent  with  the  bunch. 

27 


PINTO    BEN 


We  wus  in  a  caboose  an'  had  nose-paint, 
An'  could  buck  up  now  an'  then ; 
But  that  freight  car  warn't  no  sun-up  cor 
ral, 
An'  it  sure  wus  hard  on  Ben. 

I  told  Ben  folks  get  used  to  them  cities, 
But  there  wusn't  no  home-feelin'  in  us 

pards; 

Milk  river  seemed  eight  million  miles 
From  them  there  Chicago  stock  yards. 

A  thousand  cattle  wus  signed  f  er, 

Us  not  knowin'  where  they  wus  to  go — 

Would  Eastern  men  think  less  o'  dollars, 

If  they'd  watched  them  cattle  grow? 

28 


PINTO   BEN 


We  couldn't  savey  their  ways, — 
Didn't  try  to  then, — by  an'  by, 
'Long  comes  a  clerk-feller,  sayin', 
"You're  done — when  they're  in  the  big 
pen." 

When  I  go  back  to  that  minute, 
The  world  seems  to  stand  right  still : 
We  wus  to  drive  through  a  chute  to  the 

biggest  pen 
An5  the  cattle  wus  commencin'  to  mill : 


29 


PINTO   BEN 


Horns  an5  hoofs  wus  beatin'  the  air, 

As  they  bellowed  their  fear-ragin'  cries; 

While  out  o'  that  bedlam,  an'  cloud  o' 

dust, 
Glared   them  frightened   an'   blood-shot 

eyes. 

Jim  and  me's  cussed  many  times  since, 
Why  didn't  we  tear  out  their  throats? 
They  didn't  know  range-bred  cattle, 
From  a  herd  o'  mountain  goats. 

A  locoed  coyote  called  a  man, 
Trailed  by  a  second  an'  third, 
Commenced    shoutin'    an'    wavin'    their 
arms, 

Right  at  the  back  o'  the  herd. 

30 


PINTO    BEN 


Crack!   went  Jim's   forty-five   from   the 

bank, 

An'  I  yanked  my  smoke-machine, — 
The  whole  thousand  head  wus  comin'  like 

hell, 
Straight  into  that  chute  ravine ! 

If  I  could  only  make  a  talk, 

Of  things  as  happened  right  then, 

I  could  tell  o'  the  greatest  thing  livin' : 

Just  a  simple  cow-pony,  Ben. 

As  I  touched  the  saddle,  he  was  at  'em 
As  though  just  a  prairie  prank — 
No  spur  a-tearin'  his  belly, 
Or  quirt  a-burnin'  his  flank. 


PINTO   BEN 


He  dashed  an'  whirled  at  that  maddened 

herd, 

While  I  fanned  the  old  gun — but  no  use — 
On  they  come  crashin' — a-rippin'  up  earth, 
Blind  fury  an'  hell  all  turned  loose. 

When  I  swung  his  head,  he  know'd, 
An'  lengthened  into  that  lightnin'  stride, 
We  could  only  live  while  out  in  the  lead, 
Four  lengths ! — it  wus  sure  our  death  ride. 

God!    What's  that  out  in  front? 

A  gate, — iron  bound — rearin'  high! 

A  screamin'  neigh — an'  Ben  flattened — 

An'  I  know'd  he'd  make  it  or  die. 

32 


PINTO   BEN 


Them    lean    muscles    tightened,    an'    he 

cleared  it  clean, 

The  scorch  of  them  breaths  wus  behind, 
Pardners,  I'd  cash  in  my  checks  'thout  a 

new  deal, 
If  another  look  from  Ben  I  could  find. 


When  that  sea  o'  cattle  stopped  comin', 
They  wus  piled  up  a  mountain  high; 
I  sat  in  their  blood,  Ben's  head  in  my  lap, 
A-listenin'  to  his  last  sigh. 


33 


PINTO   BEN 


He  wus  an  ace,  never  whimpered  once'd, 
Though  he  know'd  he  wus  goin'  to  fail 
To  go  back  to  them  Plains  where  men  live 

an'  breathe, 
An'  that  we  must  soon  hit  the  back  trail. 

Then  the  greatest  light  I  ever  see'd, 
Come  into  that  Pinto' s  eyes; 
He  pulled  up  them  poor  broken  laigs, 
An'  tried  to  stand, — an'  died. 

Reckon  some  o'  that  blood  come  out  o'  my 

heart, 

This  heart  that  Ben  had  won, 
So  long,  Ben — all  in  a  day's  work! 

So  long — you  Son  of  a  Gun. 

34 


THE   SAVAGE 

Savage — One   of   extreme,    unfeeling, 
brutal  cruelty;  a  barbarian. — Dictionary. 


After  one  triumphant  cry,  Mahto  Tatonka  was 
swallowed  up  by  the  night. 


THE  SAVAGE 

PART   I 

CAPTAIN  LAWRENCE  and  Private  Flynn 
did  not  know  that  when  a  blanket  Indian 
rode  toward  them  at  a  full  gallop,  his  right 
hand  extended  palm  outward  high  above 
his  head,  it  was  to  show  the  Mineaska 
r(white  men)  that  he  was  glad  to  see  them, 
and  that  his  heart  was  good.  Why  should 
they?  They  had  been  stationed  at  Fort 
Lincoln  for  only  six  weeks,  transferred 

from  old  Fort  Ethan  Allen  in  the  far  East, 

37 


THE    SAVAGE 


to  promote  civilization  on  the  frontier  and 
subdue  the  treacherous  Dakotas. 

The  Indians  were  dissatisfied — restless. 
Chief  Gall  at  Standing  Rock,  outside  the 
old  warehouse  on  the  banks  of  the  Mis 
souri  River,  had  hurled  defiance  at  the  rep 
resentatives  of  Washington  who  sought 
to  abrogate  the  old  treaty  by  the  introduc 
tion  of  a  new  one,  further  depriving  the 
Indians  of  their  hunting  grounds.  The 
government  not  owing  their  red  brothers 
anything  except  the  land  that  the  United 
States  stands  on,  resented  the  old  war 
rior's  attitude.  He  declined  to  give  up 
another  few  thousands  of  square  miles — 
hence  the  presence  of  the  147th;  hence, 
also,  the  presence  of  Captain  Lawrence 

and  Private  Flynn  that  June  evening  upon 

38 


THE    SAVAGE 


the  trackless  plains,  ignorant  of  the  oncom 
ing  brave's  most  potent  sign  of  peace. 

So,  Captain  Lawrence  and  Private 
Flynn,  being  good  workmen  and  true, 
jerked  their  Springfields  to  their  shoulders 
and  fired.  There  was  a  momentary  blur 
of  sand  and  dust  simultaneously  with  the 
rifles'  reports,  and  when  the  smoke  cleared 
away  the  Indian  pony  was  seen  in  full  re 
treat.  Alertly  the  soldiers  crouched  over 
their  horses'  necks,  guns  sighted  for  an 
other  shot,  but  before  it  had  occurred  to 
them  to  bring  down  the  pony — and  thus 
get  the  rider — he  was  out  of  range,  all  that 


39 


THE    SAVAGE 


was  visible  of  him  being  one Jeg  from  knee 
to  foot  across  the  pony's  back. 

"Gee— Captain  Ed!"  exclaimed  Flynn, 
"that  horse  turned  on  a  space  no  bigger  nor 
a  silver  dollar!" 

"Yes!  And  there  wasn't  much  Indian 
to  shoot  at,  even  if  he  hadn't  gotten  out  of 
range,"  replied  the  captain.  "The  boys 
will  have  to  pick  up  some  of  those  tricks — 
they're  immense." 

"Sure,  that  ain't  ridin',  Captain  Ed.  Av 
ut  is,  I'm  mighty  small  potatoes  an'  not 
many  to  the  hill — the  divil  av  a  horse  swal 
lowed  him,  bad  cess  to  'um.  Sure,  it  makes 
me  feel  like  I  couldn't  ride  in  a  freight  car 
if  the  door  was  shut." 

But  in  spite  of  Flynn's  views,  it  was  rid 
ing,  and  riding  that  those  excellent  horse- 

40 


THE   SAVAGE 


men  of  the  147^  would  never  "pick  up," 
for  it  was  the  riding  of  a  Dakota,  those  sons 
of  the  free  open  range,  the  greatest  horse 
men  that  the  eyes  of  man  ever  did  or  ever 
will  look  upon. 

Two  hours  after  dusk  the  pony  lay  dead 
upon  the  trail,  the  result  of  the  wounds  of 
the  Mineaska's  bullets,  and  the  Indian  no 
longer  came  toward  them  at  full  speed  in 
friendship,  but  as  the  hunter,  now  run 
ning,  now  crawling  close  to  the  ground — 
but  never  stopping.  The  white  men 
camped,  ate,  and  slept.  The  Indian  did 


THE   SAVAGE 


none  of  these,  and  when  he  came  upon 
them  they  fought,  and  the  two  white  men 
soon  lay  upon  the  earth  convulsed  in  the 
throes  of  seeming  death.  Mahto-Tatonka 
(Bull  Bear)  after  one  triumphant  cry  of 
victory,  "Ohi,  Ya,  Pe,"  was  swallowed  by 
the  darkness. 

Wanda  was  tall,  even  for  a  Dakota. 
She  walked  with  a  gliding  motion  that  was 
not  to  be  matched  even  among  her  own 
people.  Her  ivory  bronzed  skin  was  of  a 
shade  that  no  artist  could  blend.  Her  elo 
quent  eyes  rivaled  those  of  the  black- 
tailed  deer— they  spoke  volumes,  when 
she  said  nothing.  Her  people  loved 

her.     She  was  Weah  Washtay  (the  Good 

42 


THE    SAVAGE 


Girl).  She  was  five  feet  eight  inches  in 
her  tiny  moccasined  feet,  a  straight,  prim 
itive  goddess. 

The  Great  Spirit  of  the  Dakotas  had 
talked  to  Wanda,  and  it  told  her  that  her 
medicine  was  good,  and  Wanda  dreamed 
with  the  warmth  and  innocence  of  budding 
young  womanhood  of  the  chief  that  was  to 
come  out  of  the  night  and  claim  her  for  his 
own.  Many  of  her  people,  braves,  and 
even  chiefs,  had  taken  presents  to  her 
father  and  asked  for  Wanda — they  wanted 
a  squaw,  but  Wanda's  heart  was  cold. 
Her  chief  was  to  come  out  of  the  night  as 
in  a  dream.  Had  not  the  great  Wakan, 

(Spirit  of  Mystery),  said  so? 

43 


As  the  sun  sank  in  the  west  Wanda  stood  upon 
the  rock  of  sorrow — 


PART   II 

Wanda  did  not  walk  as  her  white  sisters, 
of  whose  existence  she  did  not  know,  who, 
belted  and  laced  and  high  heeled,  cover  a 
mile  and  talk  physical  culture  for  a 
month.  Wanda,  in  a  loose  buckskin 
gown  which  hung  free  from  her  shoul 
ders,  walked  forty  and  even  fifty  miles. 
It  mattered  not  that  she  was  days  ab 
sent  from  the  Indian  village.  Indian 
girls  do  not  fear  the  opposite  sex  of 
their  own  people.  There  are  no  beasts 
among  them,  and  as  for  the  beasts  of  the 
forests  and  prairie,  Wanda  carried  her 
quiver  of  finely  feathered  arrows  across  her 

shoulders,  and  she  could  with  one  light- 

45 


THE    SAVAGE 


ning-like  pull  of  the  bow  string  bury  an 
arrow  to  the  butt  of  its  shaft  into  the  ob 
ject  of  her  aim. 

And  so  Wanda  came  upon  them,  the 
Mineaska.  And  her  lover,  her  brave,  her 
chief  came  out  of  the  night,  so  she  nursed 
him  and  his  friend.  She  made  camp  for 
them;  she  dressed  their  wounds;  she 
brought  wasna  (food),  and  the  pine  and 
balsam  air  of  the  foothills  of  old  Medicine 
Bow  healed  them  and  gave  them  strength ; 
and  around  the  dying  glow  of  the  camp- 
fire,  while  the  rippling  waters  at  the  spring 
talked  of  love  to  the  rocks,  Wanda  would 
look  up  into  the  eyes  of  her  brave  with  the 
same  air  of  simplicity  that  a  little  child 
would  have  in  listening  to  a  story  told  by 

its  mother.     And  when  the  prairie  wind 

46 


THE    SAVAGE 


with  its  healing  breath  had  given  full  life 
to  him,  he  would  caress  the  hand  that  lay 
warm  and  trembling  in  his  own — and  the 
hand  was  not  withdrawn.  The  dark  olive 
of  her  face  would  crimson,  her  eyes  dilate, 
her  face  nestle  close  to  his  breast — and  her 
raven  black  hair,  all  unleashed,  was  blown 
across  his  face  by  the  soft  wind  of  the 
night.  Then  Wanda  journeyed  to  the  big 
fort  where  all  the  Mineaska  were,  and 

said : 

"Wichasa  intancan  wan  hanhi  pecan 
he  napesa  hekna  wayan  Kta,  Ka  sunka 
wakan  ko  awicha  un"  ("Come,  come  with 
ponies  and  bring  my  chief  that  came 


THE   SAVAGE 


out  of  the  night,  and  he  will  to  marry 
me"). 

Mahto-Tatonka  was  captured  and 
brought  to  the  fort,  and  Captain  Ed  and 
Private  Flynn  swore  that  he  tried  to  mur 
der  them,  and  even  Wanda  said,  "We  cha 
sha  she  chta"  ("He  is  a  very  bad  man"). 
For  had  not  Mahto-Tatonka  wounded  al 
most  unto  the  death  her  chief  that  came  out 
of  the  night? 

So  Mahto-Tatonka,  his  calm,  steady 
gaze  never  once  removed  from  her  who  had 
been  the  idol  of  his  people,  faced  the 
twelve  leveled  guns,  which  spoke  as  one,  as 
he  cried  out,  "A  ta,  nena  O  he  ta  ka !"  ("my 
father  was  brave  man!") — and  naught 
but  a  memory  was  left  of  Mahto-Tatonka. 

But  that  memory  meant  much  for  the  f u- 
48 


THE   SAVAGE 


ture  of  Wanda.  She  was  disowned  by  her 
people — the  mighty  Ogallallas  of  the  Da- 
kotas.  Her  parents  moved  their  lodges 
apart  and  painted  their  faces  black.  Her 
brothers,  four  of  the  mightiest  hunters, 
cut  off  their  hair  and  stood  stunned,  speak 
ing  to  no  man.  Wanda  was  the  first  of 
their  tribe  to  do  that  which  they  could  not 
realize  nor  understand — so  heinous  the 
crime.  But  Wanda,  sitting  at  the  feet  of 
her  master,  her  chief  that  came  out  of  the 
night,  loved  on,  and  worshipped  on. 

Private  Flynn  fairly  groaned  in  agony. 

"Sure,  Captain  Ed,  she's  an  angel,  sor," 
said  he.  "She  don't  belong  to  no  ladies' 
school,  nor  no  album,  but  she's  an  angel  av 
goodness  an'  mercy.  A  quane  av  her  own 
people  an'  a  quane  av  the  worreld.  Sure, 
if  it  was  me,  bad  cess  to  me  fer  bein'  so 

49 


THE  SAVAGE 


bold,  she  cast  thim  swate,  innocent  eyes 
at,  I'd  love  her  from  the  ind  av  her  pigtails 
to  the  bottoms  av  her  little  moccasined 
fate.  Marry  her,  sor !  Marry  her !  Sure, 
I'll  just  die  if  you  don't." 

But  Captain  Ed  objected  to  being  ad 
vised  and  laughed  the  laugh  that  was  the 
ecstacy  of  Wanda's  soul.  "All  very  nice," 
said  he,  "and  romantic,  Flynn,  but  how 
about  the  little  blonde  girl  back  East  that 
you  used  to  carry  the  notes  to?  Young, 
fresh  as  a  dewdrop,  and — and  white.  No 
sun,  sand  and  sage  brush,  Flynn,  but  a 
princess's  bower  of  honeysuckle,  sur 
rounded  by  a  shady  green  garden." 

Still  he  walked  and  talked  with  Wanda, 
Still  he  said  sweet  things  to  Wanda. 
Still  he  put  his  arms  around  her 
Waist,  and  called  her  pet, 


Still  he  said  sweet  things  to  Wanda, 
Still  he  put  his  arms  around  her 


THE   SAVAGE 


Endearing  names. 

And  still  Wanda  filled  his  pipe 

With  "shongsasha"  (tobacco), 

And  gazed  with  trusting  eyes 

Upon  her  master.    It  did  not 

Hurt  him  and  she  was  very,  very 

Happy. 

The  shock  of  a  death  wound  seems  no 
more  than  the  prick  of  a  pin  to  a  savage. 
Indians  hide  all  traces  of  pain,  and  Wanda 
was  an  Indian.  Wanda  was  a  savage. 
Wanda  did  not  cry  out  when  Private 
Flynn,  in  halting,  broken  tones,  told  her. 
Her  face  turned  to  a  mask  of  stone.  Even 
the  discerning  eye  of  Flynn  was  fooled. 

"Sure,  an'  I  thought  she'd  go  mad,"  said 
Flynn  to  his  bunkie.  "Divil  a  bit  av  ut. 

When  I  told  her  the  captain  had  bin  trans- 
Si 


THE   SAVAGE 


ferred — omittin',  av  course,  that  he  had 
asked  to  be — she  jist  quiet  like  spoke  sum 
gibberish,  'A  ko  e  yi  ya'  (cgo  'way  from 
here')  says  she.  'Yis,'  says  I,  'he's  gone,' 
not  knowin'  what  the  divil  the  poor  darlin' 
was  sayin'." 

As  the  sun  sank  in  the  west  Wanda 
stood  upon  the  rock  of  sorrow  of  her  peo 
ple,  alone,  save  with  the  air  of  God. 

"She  didn't  stop  a  second,"  Private 
Flynn  sobbed.  "She  just  looked  up  at  the 
sky  like  she  was  a  good  Cath'lic,  an' 
stepped  off  into  that  hole  what  they  calls 
a  canyon,  with  its  sharp,  jagged  rocks  an' 
boilin'  river,  five  hundred  fate  below,  an' 
whither  ut  was  the  sun  settin'  or  me  eyes 
gittin'  full  o'  wather,  boys,  I  dunno,  but 

the  mountains  blushed." 

52 


,-...  .  while  Clarence  Minturn  is  holdirT  Betty  in 
his  arms  I  am  crouchin'  low— 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 


Well,  of  all  dogs,  it  stands  confess'd, 
Your  English  bulldogs  are  the  best; 
I  say  it,  and  will  set  my  hand  to  Jt, 
Cambden  records  it,  and  I'll  stand  to 't. 

— Smart. 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

BY  MARY  HART 

ALTOGETHER,  it  was  a  black  night  out 
side.  The  forked  winter  branches  of  the 
trees  finely  veined  a  sky  but  sparsely 
pierced  by  stars;  electric  lights  gleamed 
weakly  at  regular  intervals,  throwing  more 
into  the  background  Carl  Belnord's  strag 
gling  old  home  with  its  great  colonial  pil 
lars  and  winding  drives.  Only  the  trim 
modern  stables  far  in  the  rear  showed  evi 
dences  of  activity;  the  house  itself  was  in 
complete  darkness,  save  for  a  light  that 

[Reprinted  by  permission  from  the  J.  P.  Lippincott  Company.] 

57 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

showed  fitfully  through  the  library  win 
dows. 

Within,  round  a  great  open  fireplace, 
were  grouped,  in  relief,  three  men,  smok 
ing  in  the  silence  of  congeniality.  Carl 
Belnord,  master  of  the  house,  broke  the 
stillness  as  if  in  continuation  of  some 
spoken  word. 

'They  are  the  most  interesting,  the 
most  perfect  breed  of  dogs  in  the  world," 
he  said,  "and  the  most  misunderstood. 
Look  at  Lady  Primrose  here."  And  from 
close  under  his  great  leather  chair  a  huge, 
burdensome  dog  rose  slowly  at  sound  of 
her  name.  Her  head  was  large — too  large 
in  proportion  to  her  body — her  muzzle 
black  and  much  underhung,  and  both  head 
and  neck  were  covered  with  quantities  of 

loose  skin. 

58 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

"Look,"  continued  Belnord,  "at  the 
power  in  that  head,  those  muscular  shoul 
ders,  that  great  chest,  strong  loin,  and  ter 
rible  claws,  and  then  tell  me  if  it  means 
nothing  but  so  many  points  in  a  show — so 
many  blue  ribbons.  Marsden,"  he  went 
on  in  measured,  emphatic  tones,  "this  pro 
digious  squatty  ugliness  is  no  more  an  ac 
cident  than  her  gentleness. 

"The  bulldog  derived  his  name  from 
being  useful  in  bull-baiting.  The  sport 
was  popular  through  centuries,  with 
all  classes,  even  the  nobility,  magis 
trates,  and  clergy.  As  early  as  the 
fourth  century  those  jaws  pinned  and 
held  down  a  bull  by  the  ear — the  bull- 
baiting  dog  is  sixteen  hundred  years 
old!  Moreover,  with  humans  he  was 
simple,  fond,  inoffensive,  quiet,  good-tem- 

59 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

pered,  and  harmless.  He  was  nurtured 
with  the  breeders'  and  farmers5  children, 
and  loved  by  all;  and  he  knew  no  fear. 
That  one  last  trait  was  the  foundation  of 
bull-baiting.  It  meant  merely  training  the 
dog  physically  to  such  a  point  as  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  catch  and  hold  a  bull, 
and  he  had  within  him  the  courage  to  do 
it.  So  matches  were  made  and  great  jour 
neys  taken  to  witness  dogs  tossed  forty  feet 
in  air  on  the  horns  of  bulls  bred  fierce  and 
powerful  to  make  the  sport  interesting. 
Some  dogs  clung  till  their  teeth  broke,  and 
many  were  killed,  but  none  quit.  The  best 
with  deadly  grip  held  down  the  bull ;  and 
the  progeny  of  these  were  brought  to  taste 
the  blood  that  flowed  from  the  mangled 
carcass.  As  a  final  proof  of  his  loyalty  and 

courage,  an  old  dog  who  had  gotten  his 

60 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

grip  was  often  cut  to  pieces  by  his  master, 
without  loosening  his  hold." 

"But,  Belnord,"  interposed  one  of  his 
listeners  skeptically,  "the  modern  bulldog 
is  a  caricature.  He  would  have  no  chance 
at  all — he  would  be  quite  incapable  of 
these  feats;  his  dwarfed  body  and  limbs 
would  not  only  prevent  his  ever  being  able 
to  catch  an  infuriated  bull,  but  would 
make  impossible  his  escape." 

"He  might  not  make  good  his  escape,  be 
cause  he'd  never  try,"  retorted  Belnord, 
"and  he'd  never  know  it  if  he  was  beaten. 
There  are,  to  this  day,  in  Spain,  a  few  gi 
gantic  replicas  of  our  present  dog  (de 
scendants  of  a  common  English  ancestor) 
who  meet  and  conquer  in  the  arena  a  fierce 
unfettered  bull.  It  was  in  England,  to 

make  the  better  sport,  that  the  dog  was 

61 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

bred  smaller,  to  show  all  the  greater  cour 
age  in  conquering  the  bull.  Then,"  he 
continued  grimly,  "years  of  practice  prov 
ing  that  the  bull  had  more  difficulty  in 
throwing  off  a  short-nosed  dog,  that  the 
short  nose  afforded  a  closer  grip,  the  mas 
tiff  nose  with  which  the  bulldog  began  life 
was  gradually  eliminated;  the  breeding 
for  points  was  begun,  and  grew  to  the  ex 
cess  that  they  became  deformities — an  in 
sult  to  nature.  The  English  bulldog  has 
degenerated  to  a  pitiable  uselessness  physi 
cally — pitiable  because  he  still  holds  close 
in  his  heart  the  old  blindness  to  danger — 
that  fearless  courage  with  all  the  brute 
creation  and  the  gentleness  with  humans." 
"Belnord,"  said  the  third  man,  a 
dwarfed,  shadow-like  creature,  "I  haven't 

heard  you  warm  up  to  anything  so  for  ten 

62 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

years.  You've  not  forsaken  the  world, 
after  all.  And,  now  that  we're  on  the  sub 
ject,  how  about  those  last  year  puppies  of 
Lady's — turn  out  all  right?' 

"That's  what  I  was  leading  up  to,  Good 
rich.  One  of  them  was  weakly — died ;  the 
other's  a  wonder — body  like  a  lion,  head 
like  a  monstrosity.  Now,  I  wonder — I 
wonder  if  any  of  the  old  instinct  slumbers 
in  the  blood.  Take  this  same  pup  in  his 
prime,  given  the  opportunity,  would  that 
innate  hatred  awaken?' 

"Gad,  if  Belnord  isn't  going  in  for  bull 
fights!"  laughed  Marsden.  "But,  Carl, 
you've  got  me — let's  see  the  pup.  The 
seven-forty  shall  go  without  me  in  the 
morning  for  the  first  time  in  five  years." 

"Marsden,  you're  enlisted  in  the  cause. 
I'll  have  Wellington  bring  the  pup  in. 

63 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

"Hello!  Hello!  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  Mr.  Bel- 
nord.  That  you,  James"?  .  .  .  No,  Mr. 
Marsden  isn't  quite  ready,  but  you  can 
come  round — and,  James,  tell  Wellington 

to  bring  in  the  bull  pup Yes,  he'll 

know.  That's  all. 

"And  now" — standing  confidently  be 
fore  them  and  accentuating  his  words  by 
a  swinging  drive  of  his  mighty  closed  fist 
— "for  the  sake  of  the  sport,  for  the  sake 
of  the  science,  for  the  sake  of  the  dog,  I'm 
going  to  make  a  wager.  I  believe  that  the 
old  grit  lives,  and  I  wager  that  one  year 
from  now,  at  the  maturity  of  this  pup, 
without  training,  he  will  catch  and  hold 
down  an  unfettered  bull." 

"I  get  you,  Carl,"  said  Marsden,  rising 
excitedly. 

"And  I,"  agreed  Goodrich. 
64 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

"The  stakes/'  added  Belnord  forcefully, 
"are  the  pup's  life:  he  will  either  win  out 
or  be  killed — there  is  no  other  possible  is 


sue." 


The  telephone-bell  in  the  darkness  be 
hind  them  interrupted  with  startling  in 
sistence. 

"Hello!  .  .  .  Yes,  Wellington.  .  .  . 
That's  right,  it's  the  bull  pup  I  want — 
bring  him  around.  .  .  .  What?  I  don't 
understand.  .  .  .  Wait,  I  can't  hear.  .  .  . 
What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you, 
Wellington?  I  mean  the  other  one— the 
big  fellow.  .  .  .  It's  impossible!  .  .  . 

Why,  when?  .  .  .  Wellington,  I " 

The  receiver  dropped  from  his  hand,  he 
paced  the  room  excitedly,  and,  without 
halting,  continued  abruptly: 

"Boys,  it's  all  off — the  pup's  dead — died 

65 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

3.  week  ago  of  distemper;"  and,  as  his 
friends  closed  round  him  in  surprise: 
"Can't  you  see  ?  It's  over,  that's  all.  Just 
a  little  hobby  of  mine  gone  wrong." 

Marsden  faced  him,  laying  both  hands 
on  his  shoulders. 

"My  car's  ready,  Belnord.  I'm  sorry — 
I'm " 

"Thanks,  pardner,"  rejoined  Belnord 
cheerfully.  "Only  a  hobby  of  mine. 
Good-night,  good-night,  Goodrich.  Take 
the  south  drive,"  he  called  after  them. 
"The  other's  torn  up." 

The  massive  doors  closed  noiselessly. 

"I've  always  thought,"  asseverated  Phil 
Marsden  to  his  friend,  as  the  two  men  set 
tled  themselves  in  the  car,  "and  will  think, 
that  that  groom,  Wellington  Wilkins,  has 

in  him  the  makings  of  a  d fine  liar." 

66 


"A  brute  that  is  all  brute,  Lady,  is  loyal  to  none,' 
said  Belnord. 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

Belnord,  once  more  before  the  dying  fire, 
pulled  long  on  his  calabash  pipe,  the  dog 
close  beside  him.  "A  brute  that  is  all 
brute,  Lady,"  he  said,  stroking  her,  "is 
loyal  to  none.  A  brute  instinct  in  a  nature 
gentle  as  yours  would  be  all  the  harder  to 
kill.  Gentle  natures  are  the  most  tena 
cious  and  stubborn  in  the  world — I  found 
that  out  once  before,  eh,  my  Lady? — just 
ten  years  ago.  Yes" — laying  aside  his 
pipe  and  holding  her  head  in  both  his 
hands — "I'd  wager  my  soul  the  old  instinct 
is  there,  right  back  of  the  kindest  brown 
eyes  in  the  world." 

A  gaunt  clock  struck  three  gloomily  and 
sonorously. 

A  falling  log  spread  a  dull  glow  over 
the  room,  lighting  a  wide  stairway  as  Bel 
nord  ascended  it. 

67 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

"Come,  Lady,"  he  called. 

Lady  Primrose's  only  movement  was  to 
raise  her  head  and  listen. 

"What  is  it,  girl?" — opening  a  window 
half  way  up  the  stairway. 

A  low  whistle  came  clearly  across  the 
night,  and  the  dog  gave  a  throaty  growl 
that  ended  in  a  whine. 

"Why,  it's  Wellington" — curiously,  as 
he  closed  the  window.  "Probably  calling 
after  James.  Come,  girl,"  he  coaxed. 

The  old  dog  docilely  followed,  her  head 
swung  dejectedly  low. 

But  when  the  house  was  in  complete 
darkness,  Lady,  close  by  an  open  window, 
sat  alert,  ears  drawn  back,  eyes  staring  with 
troubled  wideness  into  the  blackness  out 
side,  pinched  nostrils  draining  in  the  cold 

air. 

68 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

Again,  and  still  again,  came  the  whistle. 
Certainly  it  was  Wellington;  only,  he 
was  not  whistling  after  James.  But  this 
only  Lady  Primrose — and  one  other  four- 
footed  diviner — knew.  He,  being  the  last 
of  his  blood,  and  rarely  endowed,  shall  tell 
his  own  story: 

That  I  am  a  dog  of  degree,  every  one 
grants ;  that  I  am  a  dog  of  pedigree,  many 
suspects. 

My  first  master  I  saw  but  twice.  He 
was  kind;  but  Wellington  was  harsh  and 
cruel,  and  hid  me  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
stable,  in  a  box  full  of  nail-holes;  and  it 
was  day  when  the  light  showed  through 
these  holes,  and  night  when  I  was  turned 

loose  to  run  in  the  field,  with  the  lights  in 

69 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

the  sky  above  showin'  through,  just  like  the 
nail-holes  in  my  box.  Now  I  yearns  for 
more  light,  and,  runnin'  round  my  field,  I 
sees  a  big  light  on  a  tall  pole,  and  one  night 
when  Wellington  kicks  me  I  runs  and 
crouches  close  in  the  bushes  by  this  pole. 
And  I  hears  the  whistle  that  should  bring 
me  back,  and  the  heavy  foot  that  searches 
for  me,  and  the  rough  voice  that  curses  me 
for  a  fool,  and  I  lays  like  one  dead  from 
fright,  till  the  cold  holds  me  tight,  and  I 
sleeps.  ...  I  sleeps  till  a  warm  hand  lifts 
me,  then  I  opens  my  eyes  to  the  real  day — 
day  so  bright  I  hides  my  head  from  it — 
and  I  am  stuffed  under  a  furry  coat,  and 
carried  fast.  When  I'm  took  out,  I  glows 
all  over. 

It  is  a  farm  where  I've  come  to.    Billy 

70 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

brought  me,  and  Betty  is  his  sister,  and 
Farmer  Ross  is  his  father,  and  John,  the 
cop  (Copper  John  for  short),  is  their 
friend.  Farmer  Ross  says,  ^£fL 
"Look  at  the  body  of  him  J^^PEac^ 
He's  a  mastiff;3'  and  Copper 
John  says,  "What,  with  that  buttoned- 
up  nose  and  a  jaw  long  as  a  nigger's  foot? 
He's  a  bull,  or  I'm  a  preacher;"  and  says, 
too,  I  must  have  a  name,  and  Billy  says  the 
only  thing  he  ever  saw  as  ugly  as  me  was 
the  bust  of  Socrates  in  the  High  School 
hall,  and  they  could  call  me  "Socky"  for 
short,  and  Copper  John  slaps  his  thigh  and 
says,  "Socky  it  is!" 

I  likes  Copper  John  best,  but  he  coughs 
frightful,  and  as  the  days  get  warm  he  lays 
in  the  hammock  in  the  door-yard,  and 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

Betty  brings  him  milk,  and  Copper  John's 
eyes  follow  Betty  everywhere. 

By-and-by  it's  always  warm,  and  Cop 
per  John  walks  through  the  country  and 
takes  me,  and  he  stays  long  on  High  Hill, 
and  smokes,  and  one  day  he  tells  Farmer 
Ross  he  wants  to  buy  the  Hill  and  build 
a  cabin  there,  and  to  let  Betty  plan  the 
cabin,  and  his  voice  trembles  as  he  says, 
"Not  a  word  till  the  cabin's  built — her 
way,  and  with  my  own  hands." 

Then  he  whistles  me  to  come  with  him 
into  the  stables  while  he  gets  his  milk. 
Now,  I  loathe  the  stables  (rememberin' 
the  one  I  used  to  live  in) ,  and  always  runs 
back  when  Copper  John  tries  to  take  me 
there;  but  this  day  he  makes  me  go,  and  I 

skulks  about  the  stalls  a-puzzlin'  to  know 

72 


Copper  John  walks  through  the  country  and  takes 
me — and  stays  long  on  High  Hill,  and  smokes. 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

why  this  stable  turns  me  worse  than  the 
one  where  I  used  to  live,  yet  huntin'  and 
huntin'  for  something  that  draws  me  and 
draws  me,  and  I  growls  low  in  my  throat, 
and  then — then,  like  a  flash,  I  comes  onto 
the  thing  I  searches.  It's  just  two  burnin' 
coals  first,  and  I  fastens  them  with  my 
eyes,  and  my  head  goes  low,  and  my  body 
rolls,  and  I  crawls  closer  and  closer  till  I 
see  a  monstrous  horned  beast,  and  I 
breathes  in  the  steam  from  his  nostrils,  and 
every  hair  in  my  spine  pricks  me,  and  I 
knows  I  hates  him  and  that  I  loves  to  hate 
him.  .  .  .  Then  I  jumps  him,  scarce 
knowin'  I  does  it,  and  tries  to  fasten  my 
teeth  in  his  hide,  and  he  plunges  and  roars, 
and  some  one  yells,  and  I  am  tossed  against 

the  low  roof  and  falls  back  into  the  stall 

73 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

close  in  the  corner,  and  lays  pan  tin',  and 
I  hears  Copper  John  yell,  "Socky's  in  the 
prize  bull's  pen!" 

The  bull  is  trampin' 
furious  now,  and  Copper 
John  and  Lenny  drags 
him  out  by  a  ring  in  his  nose.  "Funny  no 
tion  for  the  pup  to  take,"  says  Lenny;  but 
Copper  John  just  picks  me  up  and  strokes 
me  gentle. 

It  was  that  same  summer,  when  Copper 
John's  cabin  was  half  finished,  that  an 
other  man  came  to  live  at  the  farm.  Cop 
per  John  and  I  sees  him  one  day  when  we 
comes  down  from  work  on  High  Hill.  He 
was  a  tall,  pale  man,  wearin'  clothes  nicer 
than  Copper  John's  Sunday  ones,  and 

he  was  talkin'   to  Betty  so  earnest-like 

74 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

they  don't  see  us  come  up.  "Lookin5 
for  some  one?"  says  Copper  John, 
sharp. 

"No/3  says  the  man,  slow,  and  showin' 
white  teeth.  "I  live  here — engaged  board 
with  Farmer  Ross.  Clarence  Minturn's  my 
name — an  artist  lookin'  for  color  and  types 
— and  you — I  know  you :  you're  John  Ster 
ling  of  the  Broadway  Squad."  And  he 
holds  out  a  hand  with  a  ring  on  it  that 
flashes  like  the  sun,  and  Copper  John,  who 
has  said  never  a  word,  goes  into  the  house 
thoughtf  ul-like,  and  then  I  hears  him  mut 
ter  "Minturn,"  then  "Clarence,"  and 
then,  "H of  a  name  for  a  man!" 

But  Betty  calls  me  back,  and  Clarence 
Minturn  says  there's  good  blood  in  me, 

only  he  never  saw  a  bulldog  so  big,  and 

75 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

I  ought  to  be  entered  in  the  Show  that  fall. 
And  Copper  John,  coming  out,  says  any 
fool  knows  I'm  a  thoroughbred,  and  he'd 
take  me  down  just  to  see  them  all  stand 
aside. 

And  that's  how  it  happens  that,  some 
time  after,  Copper  John  scrubs  me  fierce 
and  unmerciful  one  day,  till  Betty  says 
I'm  white  as  an  angel,  and  gets  a  big  pink 
ribbon  and  ties  on  my  collar,  and  kisses  the 
ribbon,  and  kisses  me  on  the  nose,  and  Cop 
per  John  puts  me  in  the  buggy  and  drives 
me  to  the  cars,  so  I  won't  get  dirty. 

When  we  gets  off  the  cars  we  goes  to  a 
place  full  of  crowds  of  people,  with  hun 
dreds  of  dogs  barkin'  and  yelpin',  and 
Copper  John  ties  me  in  a  cage  and  goes 

away.     "Hello!"  says  a  dog  next  to  me. 

76 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

"Who  are  you?"  "Socky  from  Ross 
Homestead,"  says  I,  proud-like.  "Who're 
you?"  "King  Norris  of  Ardsleigh  Ken 
nels,"  says  he.  "Every  dog  of  class  has 
met  me  in  the  ring  and  been  beat.  How 
did  you  get  in?"  "Careful,"  I  says,  and 
the  hair  rose  on  my  back.  "I  ain't  afraid," 
he  laughs.  I  tears  at  the  wire  with  my 
claws  till  my  feet  bleeds,  and  all  the  dogs 
around  takes  sides,  and  then  Copper  John 
grabs  my  collar  and  says  the  Judge  is  wait 
ing,  and  pours  water  on  me,  and  hurries 
me  to  where  people  stands  round  a  ring, 
and  a  man  outside  shoutin',  "Number  two- 
fifteen — two-fifteen;"  and  it  seems  that  is 
me,  and  we  goes  just  inside  the  ring  to 
where  a  thoughtful  man  looks  at  me  curi 
ous  over  his  glasses,  then  closer  through 

77. 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

his  glasses,  and  points  to  a  low  table,  and 
I  sits  there.  Another  dog  comes  alongside 
me,  and  I  wags  my  tail  and  dances 
friendly-like,  but  he  never  notices.  Then 
I  offers  the  thoughtful  man  my  paw,  and 
Copper  John  says,  "Socky!"  so  sharp  I 
lays  down  and  begs  pardon,  and  Copper 
John  says,  "Up!"  sharper  still,  and  I  gets 
up  so  quick  my  foot  gets  caught  in  the  pink 
ribbon,  and  I  falls  off  the  platform,  and 
Copper  John  takes  off  the  pink  ribbon, 
whisperin',  "Socky,  I'm  ashamed  of  you," 
excited-like,  and  I  hangs  my  head  woeful 
as  he  leads  me  to  the  other  side  of  the  ring, 
where  all  the  dogs  stand  still  as  China  dogs, 
and  not  one  wears  ribbons ;  and  I  wonders 
if  there's  only  one  Betty  in  the  world. 

Then  I  sees  the  thoughtful  man  hand  out 
78 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

little  bits  of  ribbon  to  four  men,  and  King 
Norris  goes  out  with  the  one  that  gets  the 
blue — when  of  a  sudden  from  the  other 
side  of  the  rope,  behind  Copper  John, 
comes  a  sneer  and  a  chuckle,  and  a  voice 
that  turns  me  cold  says,  "So  ye  thought  ye 
could  put  'im  over,  did  ye?  'Oo  h'ever 
'card  of  a  ninety-pound  bulldog?  And 
where  did  ye  git  'im,  eh?  Well,  h'l  kin 
tell  ye  that:  'e  was  stole  from  Belnord 
Kennels  a  year  ago,  that's  where  ye  got  'im; 
but  'e  won't  take  no  prizes,  not  'im,  b'cause 
Vs  no  thoroughbred,  that's  w'y,  and  'is 
gran'ma  on  'is  Pa's  side  was  a  mongrel  mas 
tiff;"  and  right  then  Copper  John's  arm 
slashes  the  air  swift  and  strikes  Welling 
ton  square  in  the  jaw,  and  Wellington 

falls  heavy  against  some  wire  cages,  and 

79 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

then  yells,  "Hi,  there!  Police!  H'orfi- 
cer!"  and  "h'orficer"  quietlike  lays  his 
hand  on  Copper  John,  and  we  all  goes  out 
together. 

It's  just  an  empty  room  that  "h'orficer" 
takes  us  to,  and  a  few  more  quiet-lookin' 
men  like  "h'orficer"  stands  around,  and 
one  in  a  cage  looks  stern.  "Guilty  of  the 
assault,  not  guilty  of  the  theft,"  is  all 
Copper  John  says,  and  I  reaches  up  high 
as  I  can  on  the  cage  and  looks  at  him  they 
calls  "Mr.  Sergeant,"  and  he  says,  "Ugly- 
lookin'  mutt."  Then  Copper  John  breaks 
out  with,  "Same  thing  holds  good  here  as 
at  the  show,  blast  you  all!  Let  the  dog 
alone !"  "You  claim  him?"  says  Mr.  Ser 
geant,  putting  on  his  specs.  "Claim  him — 

•!"  says  Copper  John  fierce-like;  and 
80 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

Mr.  Sergeant  writes  in  a  book,  and  says 
gruff  and  loud  that  Peter  Johnson,  car 
penter — which  Copper  John  gives  as  his 
name  and  occupation — was  held  to  await 
the  results  of  the  injuries  to  one  Welling 
ton  Wilkins,  groom  for  Carl  Belnord,  and 
adds  that  Wellington  Wilkins  might  go 
(which  he  does).  Then  Copper  John 
snaps  on  my  chain  and  holds  it  short.  Mr. 
Sergeant  says,  foolish-like,  "What's  this 
you're  givin'  us,  Johnny  Sterling?"  And 
Copper  John  flushes,  and  Mr.  Sergeant 
says,  "If  you  wants  to  get  the  baby  to  bed 
before  dark,  you  better  hustle,  Johnny;" 
and  Copper  John  reaches  round  quick  over 
the  cage,  say  in'  hoarse,  "Thanks,  Jimmy." 
"The  drinks  are  on  me,"  says  Mr.  Sergeant, 

while  he  grips  Copper  John's  hand  hard. 

81 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

"You're  lookin'  fine,  all  beef  and  bellows;" 
and  the  "h'orficer"  smiles  kind-like  at  me, 
and  I  laughs  back,  and  we  goes  out. 

The  street  is  empty  now,  and  Copper 
John  looks  up  and  down  it  solemn-like, 
then  over  the  houses  where  the  sky  shows. 
He  stands  so  long  I  paws  at  him.  Then 
he  takes  out  the  pink  ribbon  and  ties  it  on 
my  collar,  and  we  goes  home. 

They  were  busy  days  at  the  Farm,  be 
cause  Farmer  Ross  went  west,  and  Billy 
was  new  at  the  work,  and  cross  with  Betty, 
and  takes  a  dislike  to  Clarence  Minturn. 
"He  ain't  square,"  Billy  says  one  after 
noon  when  it  was  just  cold  enough  to  want 
to  lie  in  the  sun,  "nor  as  rich  as  he  pretends 
to  be.  Why,  the  boys  were  sayin'  in  town 

last  night  that  he's  agoin'  to  marry  for 

82 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

money — that  the  girl's  abroad,  and  he's 
just  a-puttin'  in  time  here ;"  and  then  Billy 
whispers,  "And  he's  puttin'  in  the  time 
sketchin'  Betty  in  all  sorts  of  fool  rigs," 
and  Copper  John  drops  the  gun  he's  been 
cleaning  to  the  ground.  And  Betty  comes 
out  with  some  clothes  on  her  arm,  and 
Copper  John  says,  "Billy,  will  you  get  me 
some  waste?  There's  rust  in  my  gun-bar 
rel;"  and  when  Billy's  gone  Copper  John 
says,  "Betty,  what  have  you  there?"  and 
Betty  says,  "It's  a  secret  from  Billy,"  and 
shows  him  a  red  and  yellow  dress  that  she 
calls  "Spanish,"  and  the  red  parlor  table 
cloth  which  she  says  is  a  "mantilla,"  and 
that  she's  going  to  put  them  on,  and 
Clarence  Minturn  will  paint  her  that  after 
noon  on  Knob  Hill,  and  Copper  John  says 

83 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

Betty  sees  a  lot  of  Clarence  Minturn,  and 
Betty  says,  "Oh,  no!"  and  Copper  John 
says,  "There's  a  pretty  view  from 
Knob  Hill,"  and  Betty  says, 
eager,  she  "watches  the  sunsets 
there  every  afternoon,  and  the 
leaves  are  turned  beautiful,  and 
Mr.  Minturn  knows  the  names 
of  every  leaf,  and  paints  every  color;"  and 
Copper  John  looks  at  her  close,  and  says 
slow,  "Maybe  Mr.  Minturn' s  been  kind  to 
you,"  and  Betty  clasps  her  hands  and  says, 
"Just  noble!  But  Billy  doesn't  like  him 
— and  you  do,  don't  you,  Copper  John?' 
And  Billy  comes  back  with  the  waste, 
and  Betty  goes  in,  and  Copper  John 
stands  stiff-like,  a-holdin'  the  gun  tight 

now.      "Where    are    you    goin"?"    says 

84 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

Billy.  "To  Knob  Hill,"  says  Copper 
John,  and  Billy,  excited-like,  points  to 

the  gun  and  says,  "You  wouldn't " 

and  Copper  John  says,  listenin'  to 
Betty  singin'  about  her  work,  "No, 
Billy,  I  won't  need  to.  He's  goin'  to  act 
square,  and  it  might  look  unfriendly  to 
bring  this  to  Knob  Hill,  so  I'll  just  leave  it 
with  you.  And  remember — he's  going  to 
act  fair — and  square;"  and  I  gets  up  and 
runs  to  go  with  him,  but  he  says  real  sharp, 
"You  stay  here,  Socky.  I'm  goin'  on  busi 
ness  this  time."  So  I  lays  down  there  in 
the  sun,  with  my  head  restin'  on  my  paws, 
pointin'  to  Knob  Hill,  and  waits  orders. 
Betty  sings,  and  the  sun  sinks  lower  and 
lower,  and  I  dreams.  ...  I  dreams  I'm  at 

the  Show,  in  the  ring  where  the  sawdust  is 

85 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

— just  King  Norris  and  me,  and  we're 
walkin'  round  and  round  and 
closin'  in — and — I  gets  him 
and — bang!  goes  something, 
m^ki^^^  and  when  I  jumps  up  I  knows 
it's  the  kitchen  door,  for 
Betty  is  comin'  out  with 
her  red  and  yellow  dress  on,  with  the 
red  table-cover  on  her  shoulders.  The  sun 
is  pretty  low  now;  Betty  is  late  for  sketch- 
in',  but  in  time  for  the  sunset.  As  she 
passes  me  she  says,  "You  mind  the  house, 
Socky,"  and  runs  along  the  path  to  Knob 
Hill.  I  watches  Betty  far  as  I  can  see, 
then  I  stretches  myself  and  walks  round 
the  door-yard.  Nothin'  is  stirrin'.  I  sniffs 
everywhere;  no  fresh  prints  or  scents — 

mostly  Copper  John's;  this  heavy  one  the 

86 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

last.  I  follows  it  'cross  the  yard,  'cross  the 
road,  and  then  stops,  for  there  I  comes  on 
that  other  scent  close  by  Copper  John's: 
side  by  side  with  the  one  I  loves  most  is  the 
one  I  hates  most,  and  somehow  the  hate  is 
bigger  than  the  love,  which  means  it's 
bigger  than  me.  I  zigzags  from  side  to 
side,  a-trailin'  it,  and  then  follows  it 
straight,  straight  up  Knob  Hill — I  follows 
hard.  I  comes  on  them  first,  not  knowin' 
they're  so  near:  Copper  John,  Clarence 
Minturn,  and  Betty;  and  Minturn  is  put- 
tin'  the  ring  that  flashes  like  the  sun  on 
Betty's  finger,  and  Betty  is  lookin'  at  him 
as  she  never  looked  at  any  of  us — no,  not 
at  Farmer  Ross,  nor  Billy,  nor  Copper 
John,  nor  me,  though  we'd  all  die  for  her, 

and  Copper  John  is  walkin'  away  slow 

87 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

down  the  hill,  and  whistles  for  me  to 
come ;  but  I  stays,  for  while  Clarence  Min- 
turn  is  holdin'  Betty  in  his  arms  I  am 
crouchin'  low,  close  on  the  trail  that 
brought  me  here;  and  no  one  sees  what  I 
sees;  and  my  eyes  burns  with  the  watchin', 
for  far  off,  a-comin'  slow,  is  the  prize  bull, 
his  neck  stretchin',  his  tail  lashin'.  He's 
not  lookin'  at  me,  but  at  Betty — Betty 
with  her  red  table-cover  flappin'  in  the 
wind! 

Copper  John  is  whistlin'  again,  but  I 
never  moves,  only  to  creep  on  my  belly 
closer,  closer  in  his  path,  and  my  mouth 
goes  dry  with  the  thirst  for  him,  for  I  hates 
him  and  I  loves  to  hate  him,  and  by  and  by 
he'll  see  me,  and — now!  we  are  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  field!  His  nose  goes  to  the 

88 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

ground,  mine  'most  touchin'  his — his 
breath  streamin'  hot  on  all  sides  of  me — 
and  we  circles  round — then  I  hears  Betty 
scream,  and,  without  turnin'  to  look,  I 
knows  she  is  standin'  on  the  stone  wall 
callin'  for  help,  with  the  red  table-cover 
a-wavin' ;  and  the  prize  bull  almost  takes 
his  eyes  from  mine — and  I  has  him.  I  pins 
him  close,  close  by  the  ear — and  I  knows 
that,  rage  though  he  may,  bellow  and  pitch 
and  toss  and  stamp  and  burn  me  with  his 
breath,  however  hard,  even  crush  my 
foot  in  his  jaw,  I'll  never  let  go,  no — I'll 
never  let  go.  So  with  me  still  a-clingin'  he 
gives  a  mighty  roar,  and  tears  'cross  the 
field  for  Betty,  me  whippin'  the  air  till  my 
spine  snaps,  and  I  sinks  my  teeth  deeper 

and  deeper,  his  blood  a-blindin'  me;  then 

89 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

he  stumbles  and  crashes,  and  I  knows  I  am 
fast  between  him  and  the  stone  wall  where 
Betty  stood  a-wavin'.  ...  I  sees  nothin' 
for  the  hot  blood,  and  I  hears  nothin'  but 
the  rushin'  in  my  head,  but  I  never  lets  go 
— no,  even  in  the  dark,  with  the  prize  bull 
layin'  so  still  and  so  heavy,  I  never 
lets  go. 

"SockyJSocky!  .  .  .  God!  man,  there's 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of:  the  bull's  bled  to 
death;  the  pup  may  be  alive  yet.  Now 
pull!  All  together!"  I  feels  a  great 
weight  liftin'  off  me,  but  my  teeth  is  sunk 
into  it,  and  it  drags  me  too;  then  a  light 
flashes,  and  I  feels  Copper  John's  hand 
a-goin'  over  my  body  and  stop  at  a  hurt  in 
my  leg.  "Smashed  to  a  pulp,"  he  says, 

"and  bleedin'  quarts."    Then  thoughtful- 

90 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

like,  "Minturn,  the  lantern.  .  .  .  Socky, 
this'll  never  be  any  more  use  to  you,  old 
man — never,"  and  something  tight  ties 
round  my  leg  above  the  hurt,  and  ...  I 
knows  Copper  John  is  cuttin'  off  what  he 
says  was  "smashed  to  a  pulp.55  I  can5t  see 
the  lantern  any  more,  but  I  feels  Copper 
John  tryin'  to  lift  me,  but  my  jaws  is  set  in 
the  weight,  and  he  pries  and  pries,  and  I 
locks  them  tighter  .  .  .  and  everything  is 
black  .  .  .  only,  like  a  dream,  I  hears 
Betty's  voice,  sayin',  "For  me,  Socky  .  .  . 
for  me — can't  you  hear,  boy*? — for  me.55 
.  .  .  Copper  John  is  bendin'  over  me,  too, 
for  something  drops  hot  and  stingin5  on 
my  face.  ...  I  loosens  my  jaws  and  the 
weight  drops — I  rolls  sideways.  .  .  . 
"Take  Betty  home,  Minturn,55  Copper 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

John  says,  his  voice  groanin'-like.     "I'll 
'tend  to  the  rest." 

Then  he  lifts  me  from  where  I  sinks. 
"Not  done  for,  Socky,"  he  says,  close  in  my 
ear,  "surely  not  done  for;"  and  I  licks  the 
hot  drops  that  streams  down  his  face.  .  .  . 
And  then  he  stumbles  down  the  hill  with 
me  in  his  arms.  .  .  .  Ugh !  I  feels  the  cold 
water  of  the  lake  all  round  me,  and  I  fights 
and  splashes,  and  Copper  John  shouts, 
"There's  life  in  you  yet,  boy;"  and  as  I 
tries  to  scramble  out,  he  lifts  me  and  wraps 
me  in  his  coat.  There's  something  wet  and 
cold  on  his  hand  that  I  tries  to  get  at,  but 
he  lays  me  down  and  covers  me,  then  digs 
in  the  ground.  I  rises  and  sees  him  lay  a 
stone  where  he  was  diggin',  then  I'm 

wrapped  tight  again,  and  Copper  John 

92 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

goes  pantin'  'long  the  road  .  .  .  and, 
though  I'm  covered  so  I  can't  see,  I  knows 
he's  not  takin'  me  to  the  farm,  but  to  his 
cabin  what  he  built  with  his  own  hands, 
and  what  Betty  planned. 

When  I  wakes  I'm  on  a  blanket  on  the 
floor  before  the  big  stone  fireplace,  and 
I'm  alone.  I'm  afraid  I  worries  some  there, 
and  whines  a  bit  with  the  loneliness  and 
the  ache  in  my  body  and  the  hurt  in  my 
leg,  and  I  gets  thinkin'  of  that  thing  in  me 
that's  bigger  than  me,  and  was  tryin'  to 
rise  when 

"Socky,  Socky,"  says  Copper  John,  shak- 
in'  a  warnin'  finger  at  me  as  he  comes  in 
at  the  door ;  his  lantern's  a-swingin',  a  great 
pile  of  wood  in  his  arms.  "We're  going 

to  celebrate,   Socky,"   he  says.      "We're 

93 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  BLOOD 

elected;"  and  he  heaps  the  wood  high  in 
the  new  fireplace,  and  lights  it.  It  burns 
with  a  roar,  and  I  sniffs  the  heat  and 
stretches  out  while  Copper  John  leans  on 
the  mantel,  shiverin'  a  little ;  then  he  comes 
over,  and,  with  a  knowin'  wink,  takes  a 
lumpy  paper  bag  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
holds  it  up.  "Guess,  Socky,"  he  says.  I 
licks  my  chops  and  pounds  the  floor  with 
my  tail.  "Right  you  are,"  he  says,  and 
seats  himself  alongside  me  and  slices  off 
great  pieces  of  liver  and  feeds  me.  "Now, 
Socky,"  he  says  when  it  was  all  gone,  and 
I  had  licked  his  hands — "now,  Socky,  we'll 
talk  business.  We've  won  out  to-day,  boy, 
both  of  us,  and  I've  a  proposition  to  make." 
...  I  listens,  but  he  seems  to  have  forgot 

me  and  lights  his  pipe,  then  his  eyes  looks 

94 


THE   LAST   OF   HIS   BLOOD 

into  the  fire  with  that  far-away  look  that  I 

had    so    often    seen    when    Betty 

"Socky,"  he  says  again,  sudden-like,  "I 
think  you  and  me  could  face  it  out  to 
gether " 

I  agrees. 

And  he  smokes  and  smokes  and  watches 
the  flames,  and  once  he  coughs,  and  though 
it's  long  since  he's  coughed  at  all,  this  is 
just  as  hard  as  I  ever  heard  him.  He  just 
smiles,  as  if  it  didn't  hurt  any  more;  so  I 
licks  the  throb  in  my  leg  till  I  snuffs  some 
thing  familiar,  and  then  I  knows  that  the 
thing  that's  tied  round  so  tight  is  the  pink 
ribbon  I  wore  at  the  Show 


95 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

BookSlip-50m-5,'70(N6725s8)458— A-31/5 


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PS3515 

Hart,  W.S.  A795 

Pinto  Ben.  P5 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


